


Addicted

by IdSellMySoulForRecentlyUpdatedFanfiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, John Watson Needs A Hug, John is Not Amused, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, M/M, Mary Ships It, Moriarty Is A Dick, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft Being Mycroft, On Hiatus, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:26:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdSellMySoulForRecentlyUpdatedFanfiction/pseuds/IdSellMySoulForRecentlyUpdatedFanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is a high-class criminal, and John is a low-class thief until he's not. (On Hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

    John is holding a large coffee as he walks into the room separated from the interrogation room just by a thick chunk of one-way glass. His officer walks just behind him, causing John to roll his dark eyes in annoyance as he yawns. The yawn is cut off in the middle as the blonde’s eyes catch on the man who he and a team of the 53rd division nearly all died to a few months ago. Well,  _he_  nearly died. Regretfully, he was only able to save two others, and they’re missing body parts or chunks of their sanity. Only John walked out with only bad pain that shoots up in his knee every now and then.

    “What is  _he_  doing here?” John asks, his voice shaky as his hands tremble a bit. John shoves them in his pockets to hide the motions. The blonde knows it isn’t possible, but the mostly blue, uninterested gaze of the dark haired man in the other room feels aimed at him. “Better question; what am  _I_  doing here with him?”

    “I’m sorry, John.” The officer in front of him, a man named Sebastian, says, sounding genuinely displeased. “He refuses to talk unless it’s to one of his uninjured survivors. He didn’t think there were any until Angelica opened her trap. You’re the only one.” John scowls, glaring at Sebastian as a sense of dread washes over him.

    “Don’t you try to pin this entirely on her. You could’ve just grabbed another small blonde man! He couldn’t have seen me all that well. I was crouched in the back because of my knee.” John snaps, slate eyes flaring with anger tinged with fear. The blonde flinches when Sebastian places a hand on his shoulder.

    “John,” Sebastian starts, sounding almost gentle, “This is S.H. He’s the reason this entire division was created, and we finally got him! You can be the one to finally bring him down.” John glares and yanks his shoulder out of the other man’s weak (by comparison) grip after the man says, “This could be your ticket to full freedom!”

    “Don’t put on an act, I’m not stupid.” John snaps, “I know I don’t have a choice here. Just open the damn door.” John walks out of the room, waiting for the other door to click so he can enter a room with a genius psychopath.

    “I’m getting quite  _bored_.” The man booms, and John flinches. “I’m afraid that if this so called survivor doesn’t appear soon, I may not comply so easily.” The door clicks, and John does his best to steel his nerves as it swings open. Angelica’s guilty stare is aimed at John, but the man ignores it in favor of counting the tiles on the floor. John takes a deep breath and walks into the room, managing to hold eye contact with S.H. for a few moments before his eyes snap to the steel chair he pulls out. The blonde sits, putting his arms on the table before he takes a sip of his drink, placing it on the table afterwards silently. “Oh, I remember you. I’m quite surprised you’re alive.” John narrows his eyes. “You’re the ex-medic turned thief that was captured with the 53rd division members.”

    “I was.” John says, his words sounding a bit strangled even to his own ears.

    “Oh?” S.H. mutters, raising a brow. John rolls his eyes, taking another swig of his coffee quickly. The blonde nods, then shakes his head.

    “Don’t act surprised at the fact I answered honestly. You don’t take guesses, and you won’t say anything if I lie to you off the bat.” John says, and S.H. tilts his head to the side thoughtfully, his eyes flashing with something John definitely doesn’t like.

    “Off the bat?” S.H. questions, and John narrows his eyes in slight annoyance.

    “Don’t play dumb. It’s quite unflattering.” John says, and S.H. looks amused as he stares at the much smaller man.

    “What is your name?” S.H. asks, and John raises a brow. Does this guy think he’s stupid? Sure, he may be absolutely terrified, but he isn’t just going to give up his name to this genius maniac.

    “J.W.” John says, and S.H. grins almost wickedly.

    “This may start to get  _fun_.” S.H. says, his smile looking more like a panther baring it’s teeth than a criminal trapped in an interrogation room.

    “You see, S.H., I’m tired, and I’d love to be in bed much more than sitting in this room with the likes of you. I’m sure you’d much rather be off robbing a bank or something, too. So, you answer my questions, and we can both leave this room much more quickly. “ John says, draining his coffee so he has an excuse for his shaky… Well, everything, really. S.H. is staring at John  when the blonde gets the guts to look up again.

    “Well, dear doctor,” John grimaces at the title, feeling a bit ill, “I’d love to help you, but I’m afraid that  _I_  get nothing from this. Information is never free, you know?” S.H. sates, and John winces what he’d consider unnoticeably. However, S.H>’s standards are much higher judging by the glint in his pale eyes. The dark haired man is obviously amused, and quite entertained.

    “...What is it that you want?” John asks, crossing his arms in a way that even the blonde man knows shows that he’s obviously nervous. S.H. grins, leaning forwards. John narrows his eyes in for a millisecond in a grimace, leaning back more than is necessary. S.H.’s eyes spark with amusement.

    “How amusing. Even while chained to a table, I still hold power over you.” S.H. states, and John grimaces outright. “How about we play a game?” John narrows his eyes and furrows his brows.

    “What kind of game?” The man asks, and S.H. grins deviously.

    “A game of questions, of course. I can tell when you’re lying, J.W, but you can’t tell when I do. So, I will ask you a question, and, if you answer honestly, you’ll be allowed to ask a question of the same magnitude and  _you’ll_  get an honest answer.” S.H. says, and John narrows his eyes. The blonde man is able to hold eye contact for a solid ten seconds before he looks away and nods. S.H. raises a brow. “You don’t wonder why?”

    “You’re bored.” John states, crossing his arms protectively. “That’s why you’ve decided to stop by. I have no doubt that you’ll be busting out in a few minutes, and I have no doubt that you can get out of those cuffs. So you’re bored, and this is entertaining to you. So you’ll answer honestly because you’ll be getting information you don’t already know. Information likely about me.” John says, shoving his shaky hands into his pockets. S.H. is looking at John with a raised brow and interested eyes.

    “Hmm. You’re more intelligent than I thought you to be. It would help explain how you escaped. What is your name?” S.H. asks. “Your real name.” John clenches his fists nervously inside his pockets.

    “John Watson.” John says after a short period of silence, certain he’ll regret telling S.H. his name in the near future. It’s obvious that John won’t get a freebee introduction, so the man asks. “And yours?”

    “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” S.H. says, leaning forward with amused eyes as John’s earpiece and microphone short circuit before the man finishes speaking. The ground rumbles, and John recoils as Sherlock stands, no longer bound to the table by a long pair of handcuffs. “I must say, John, this was an interesting experience. I’m not sure I could delete it even if I needed to.” Sherlock says casually, walking around the table and herding John around it to the other side. Sherlock picks up the medical bag John brought in so he could fix the wounds S.H. had received during capture. Maniacs or not, John can’t help but help people.

“And, since you were so kind as to bring things to fix my injuries, I’ll refrain from inflicting harm on you.” Sherlock pulls out a full syringe, and John shrinks back.

    “No.” John whispers, backing up as Sherlock casually vaults over the table. The smaller man is shaking, and Sherlock sighs, shaking his head as he backs John into a corner. The man catches the fist sent flying at his face easily,  twisting the arm until John is spun around and pinned to the wall.

    “That was quite rude, John. But I’ll let it slide this time. Fear messes with your minds very heavily.” Sherlock says before he injects John with the sedative.

    “Nonono…” John mumbles on repeat as he sways, slumping against the wall. Sherlock takes his weight easily, picking him up and heading to the chair.

    “Shh…” Sherlock says as John starts to get heavier as he starts to slip into unconsciousness. Sherlock isn’t sure if the ex-army doctor can feel the slightly warmed cuffs snap around his wrists. Sherlock says, and John flinches away from the pale eyed man the best he can.

    “Sherlock?!” A voice shouts, and the tall man scowls, sitting on the table after he places the food and water he had in front of John. Apparently, the explosion had made a giant crack in the wall and ‘mirror’ on one side of the room.

    “In here!” Sherlock shouts, and the door is flung open soon after. “Ah, George. You do care.” Sherlock says and the silver haired man steps over a body and into the room. Dark eyes flash with annoyance, but then Lestrade rolls his eyes. The end up resting on John’s figure, and the man aims his gun at the blonde man. Sherlock is quick to step in between John and Lestrade.

    “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Lestrade snaps, dark eyes wide as he stares at the taller man.

    “I want him alive. He’s interesting.” Sherlock says, and Lestrade lets out an angry noise before he lowers his gun. It’s silent for a moment, but eventually Lestrade sighs, glancing at John.

    “This is the only one I’m letting you keep, understand?” Sherlock’s face lights up with somewhat evil glee, and the man nods. “I’ll send somebody to pick him up in a few days.” Lestrade says.

    “No, it’s fine. I’ll retrieve him. I’ll give ehi a week to a month so he thinks he’s safe after he runs.” Sherlock whispers, and Lestrade raises a brow. Both men easily ignore the gunfire and screaming in the background.

    “Do you want me to set up a room?”

    “Mine will suffice.” Sherlock murmurs before he turns to John. “I’ll be seeing you soon John.”

    “We need to go. Now.” Lestrade says, and Sherlock rolls his pale eyes before he follows the man to the waiting getaway chopper.


	2. Chapter 2

    John knows that the day that he isn’t ready is the day that Sherlock will visit. And it’s seeming more and more like today is that day. The man’s day is already terrible. His officer had stopped texting him about forty minutes ago, which means that John only has around twenty more minutes to get back to his flat which probably has a psychopathic killer. Maybe it’d be safer to have an officer come and arrest him instead of going back to his flat. However, if Sherlock can break out of a jail, John has no doubt when he says the man can probably break into one easily.

    Officer Kelly left for John’s flat half an hour ago, and John is now certain that he isn’t coming back. John gets up, starting in the opposite direction of his flat at a fast pace. An engine purrs powerfully nearby, and a sleek, white limo/car/thing pulls up in front of John quickly. The man stumbles back, turning and running the other way. John is chased down streets and alleyways, and when the man backs into an unlocked building he freezes up, recognizing his surroundings. He’s in the stairwell connected to his own damn flat.

    John starts to shake, and he runs to his landlord’s door. The blonde pounds on the door until his hand is bleeding in two places, and he shouts until his throat is burning and he tastes iron. The blonde can hear the sorrowful tune of a violin float down the stairs after his voice nearly gives out, and John follows the melody to the door of his flat. The man pauses at the door, wondering if he can just stand outside instead of going in to face the man surely preparing to kill him. However, the front door opens within seconds and two men with loaded guns walk into the stairwell.

    All of John’s breath leaves him in a nearly forced exhale, and John feels like he’s been punched. The man opens his door with a shaky hand, and the violin music pauses as soon as a silhouette becomes visible against the darkening gold sky. A bow is resting on top of oddly white strings, and the tall man’s posture is perfect. John is shoved into the room roughly, causing the man to fall onto his hands and knees as the door slams behind him. Sherlock turns, putting down his instrument as he stares at John with mostly blue eyes.

    The much smaller man scrambles away until his back is pressed against the flimsy door that belongs to his flat. John is sure that even Sherlock can hear his heart, as the blonde can barely hear anything over the rushing blood and quick drumming. “John.” Sherlock greets, pale lips tugging up at one corner. “I’m told you tried to run. That’s quite rude, hmm?” Sherlock questions, obviously not expecting an answer as he pins John in place with just his eyes. John glances around his flat for a way out, but his dark eyes catch on the gore in his kitchen. The man turns sheet white as he sees his officer. He’s hung upside-down by his feet with his tie, and the color of the puddle under his purple face matches the streaks that drip down his neck from the deep cut on his neck.

    John gags, one hand slapping over the man’s mouth in an attempt to stop John from throwing up. It just barely works, and the man still has to force down the bile that claws its’ way up his wrecked throat. “Oh, him.” Sherlock says, following John’s line of sight like this is something he sees everyday. John’s eyes widen a bit more as he realizes it probably is something common for the other man. “He tried to shoot me. That was also quite rude.” John shivers, trying to somehow back up even more as Sherlock strides towards him. Sherlock bends at the waist, looming over John with predatory eyes.

    “Nonononono…” John whispers on repeat, his voice rough and scratchy even in such low pitches. Sherlock shakes his head as John turns his head to the side, leaning in a bit more when the other’s grey eyes shut tightly.

    “My dear John, you should know that nobody  _truly_  escapes me. It could always be worse. You could try to seriously hurt me and end up like him.” John manages to recoil, shrinking away until he’s nearly laying down. A familiar scent makes itself  known to John, and his dark eyes crack open to stare untrustingly at the tea held out to the man.

    “What is this?” John asks, slowly moving up to lean on his forearms.

    “Tea.” Sherlock says, but John narrows his eyes.

    “No. What’s in it? There’s discoloration.” John murmurs, leaning back again as Sherlock leans forward, bringing his face closer to the other’s.

    “I figured you’d appreciate being drugged more than being chloroformed or knocked unconscious forcefully. However, another way  _could_  always be arranged.” Sherlock grins deviously as John takes the tea from his hand quietly. The much taller man can feel the other’s trembling even after he lets go of the cup. “You can taste it?” Sherlock asks, interested even as John winces away in fear.

    “Tastes like rotting fruit and old chocolate.” John whispers in a hoarse voice, jolting to the left as one of his arms gives out. John winces away from Sherlock when the man reaches out, downing the tea before the other decides to help him drink it. The man drops the cup, hearing it shatter more than he sees it as the world starts to blur. Sherlock waits for the man to crash before he kneels down next to him, checking for a pulse. He waits for about thirty seconds before a strong thud tells Sherlock that he hasn’t killed John.

    Sherlock hides inside of a coat in the closet as thunderous footsteps approach quickly. The police officer doesn’t hear Sherlock pull out a container from his pocket after she radios in about the two dead men in the flat. She checks the closet, and Sherlock steps out of the shadows, spraying a light liquid into the woman’s mouth before she can even think about reaching for her gun. The officer’s pale eyes roll back, and Sherlock grabs her coat with a gloved hand, breaking her fall a bit, causing her not to break anything when she hits the floor with a solid  _thud_.

    Sherlock makes sure nobody is nearby, and then he quickly heads back up into the flat. He lifts John easily, carrying him down the two flights of stairs with no problem. He makes it out the door and down an alleyway when he hears sirens finally approaching. Nobody even takes a second glance at the dark luxury car as it pulls out of a parking garage and speeds down the road.

 

***

 

    When John wakes up he recoils immediately. Away from the warbled voices. Away from the blurred lights. Away from the moving colors and the white noise that the blonde can’t escape. But John’s feet are on the ground and they feel like lead, and there’s a steel grip on his shoulders that comes with an annoyed rumble. And John can’t tell if the grip is tightening or if his mind is being fucked with a mixture of fear and something likely highly illegal.

John moves to grip his head, but the cold steel around his wrists forces him to stop. The hand holding the chain makes the metal bite into his flesh harshly. The rumbling gets louder, sounding like a nearing storm. “Get…-tidote.” John hears, the deep voice turning into distant thunder. “...-cting ba-...-eed to ma-...-mprovements.” John feels something prick his neck as he’s handed off, and adrenaline shoots through the small man like lightning. John struggles out of the hold that’s much weaker than the previous one, practically blind. The blonde man hears an alarmed shouting and the click of a gun.

There’s a few thuds to John’s right, and the man lets out something that’s a mix of a startled gasp and a panicked noise as someone looms over him for half a second. John unintentionally shrinks into a sturdy chest as he tries to avoid the hand that wraps around his throat. Apparently, that’s what Sherlock was counting on, as the man easily spins half-way while holding John against him. There’s two gunshots, and John is wrenched around roughly by the hold on his neck and the force of it holding him against Sherlock.

There’s a deep hiss against the back of John’s head, and Sherlock shifts quickly. There’s another gunshot after about half a second, this one impossibly louder. There’s a heavy  _thud_  nearby, and John tenses as the grip on his neck tightens a bit. He hasn’t been choked at all by the hold, but it’s quite obvious that the hand around his neck could kill him within seconds. Another arm wraps around John, pinning his arms to the side as the adrenaline in Sherlock’s body slows down.

    John is trying to keep his breathing even, but he knows that Sherlock can feel his heart racing against his chest. Or his stomach. John isn’t exactly sure where he exactly stands next to Sherlock. The dark haired genius is breathing heavily through his nose, his jaw clenched as tightly as his eyes are closed. “What the bloody hell happened?!” A man exclaims, his deep voice filled with shock and no small amount of annoyance.

    Sherlock is still breathing heavily, but he loosens his hold on John’s neck. It’s still heavy, but John isn’t sure that the thought of actually hurting him ever crossed Sherlock’s mind in that entire thing. One hand flies up to Sherlock’s arm when John’s senses finally return to him completely, and his expression accurately shows the panic rushing through him as his grip on the larger man’s arm tightens considerably. Sherlock takes a deep breath before he stands straight, still holding John in an almost threatening hold.

    “Sherlock!” The man snaps, and Sherlock turns slightly to the right, forcing John to do the same. John can feel Sherlock glare at the dead body on the floor, but the blonde man does his best to avoid looking at it. He killed that woman. If he hadn’t fought, that woman wouldn’t have a bullet hole between her eyes. “Fuck! You’re bleeding.” The silver haired man announces, eyes wide and expression filled with shock. John tries to turn to look at Sherlock to see if the man is, in fact, bleeding, but the criminal genius tightens his hold on John, not allowing the smaller man to turn.

    “What happened? Are you okay?” A girl with angular, mouse-like features barges into the room. Her brown eyes snap immediately to Sherlock.

    “I’m fine.” Sherlock rumbles, but John can feel the heavy thudding of the other’s heart on his back like a submachine gun being fired. John glances around the room. The girl licks her thin lips nervously, her doe-like eyes narrowing dangerously as they stick to John. One hand goes to her hip, and John tenses as a gun is aimed at him. Sherlock growls deeply, the hand around John’s throat disappearing. A gun appears in front of the blonde a few moments later, and John would grab it out of Sherlock’s hands if his arms weren’t pinned to his sides by the strong grip Sherlock has on him.

    “Woah! Sherlock…” The silver haired man starts, but he stops approaching and raises his hands in a surrendering position when the gun is aimed at him. “Calm down, I won’t hurt John. Molly, drop your damn gun. Sherlock.” The man says, approaching slowly, acting like Sherlock is a wild animal with a piece of food he thinks will be stolen. John pales a bit when he realizes that that is almost exactly what’s going on, and Sherlock frowns against the back of John’s head when he feels the smaller man start to shake.

    “What-”

    “Now!” The silver haired man snaps at Molly, interrupting her. He turns back to Sherlock, one arm held out with the hand raised in a ‘stop’ position. “Sherlock, I helped you get John. I promised I wouldn’t hurt him. Molly won’t hurt him either, put the gun down.” The man orders, and Sherlock clenches his jaw and tightens his hold on John slightly. “ _Sherlock_.” The man snaps. “You’re scaring him.” Sherlock tenses, taking a shuddering breath, slowly lowering his gun. “There you go. Alright, I’m going to send Molly up to your room with a medkit, okay? You can keep John with you, but you need the bullet wound checked out or you won’t be able to keep John safe from people like Jennifer. Okay?”

    John sighs silently as Sherlock nods, dropping his arm and putting his gun away. “Alright.” Sherlock murmurs, and the man nods.

    “You can call me Lestrade.” The silver haired man tells John, and the smaller man winces a bit when Lestrade steps closer to him. “Alright, yeah. I almost forgot that you’re gonna be… Jumpy, for a while at least. Sherlock is gonna take you up to his room, alright. It’s probably safer for you if you sit within a foot of him. Maybe lay on the bed and watch telly while he’s getting fixed up. You’re gonna be staying there, but nothing sexual is gonna happen to you. Especially not without your consent, and likely not at all with Sherlock. Understand?” Lestrade asks, chuckling a little at John’s expression. Sadistic bastard.

    “Yeah.” John says, his voice sounding completely wrecked. Lestrade winces a bit as John’s eyes flash with pain.

    “There’s some painkillers in the medkit. Help yourself to one to three. Three being eight or higher on the pain scale.” Lestrade says, and John nods before he allows Sherlock to nearly carry him out of the room and towards and elevator.


	3. Chapter 3

    John’s been left alone for almost a month now. Well, mostly alone. Occasionally Sherlock will pop in, and he doesn’t really count Molly or Lestrade as bothers. It annoys him, as he knows that he should hate everybody that works with or for Sherlock. Because they’re all the reason he’ll never have a normal life. So far, it just seems like John is gonna be that pet that not everybody likes but they tolerate. John hasn’t even been harmed more than accidentally being bumped into, even during the panic-inducing nights when Sherlock actually comes up to his room.

    John glances up as the doors open, tensing up considerably. He relaxes a tad as he notices it’s just Lestrade, but then he scowls at his reaction and turns back to the room he’s drawing on a napkin. “Morning, John.” Lestrade greets, yawning a bit as he scratches the back of his head. He’s breathing slightly heavy, and he rubs the back of his neck for a second after he’s done scratching.

    “Why did you run here? And what’s got you nervous?” John asks, eyes narrowing as he pauses in his drawing. He’d picked up the hobby after the third day of being stuck in the room, given as there isn’t much else to do. And drawing will keep his brain more active than the crappy telly he sometimes scribbles screenshots of on napkins or envelopes. Lestrade raises a brow, his hand pausing against his neck.

    “Picking up a few things from Sherlock, are we?” Lestrade asks, and John grimaces a bit. Lestrade sees the reaction, and decides not to press about the subject. “Speaking of, the man wants me to bring you to him. He’s got a bunch of meetings he’s still gotta do, and he’s getting bored.” Lestrade says. John scowls.

    “Is he now?” John asks, stubbornness coloring his tone a dark orange. Lestrade raises a brow again.

    “I get that you don’t like the man, but by that logic you should hate Molly and I too.” Lestrade states, and John sighs heavily through his nose, leaning back and rubbing his temples with two fingers.

    “I should, and that’s a problem. I think I’ve gotten stockholm syndrome. And you don’t scare me. Sherlock does.” John says, standing and stretching. Lestrade narrows his eyes a bit, looking the man up and down.

    “Good, you’ve been showering and eating correctly. We can stop downstairs and get you some new clothes, given as you don’t want to meet important people in a tank and pajama pants.” Lestrade says, looking a bit sympathetic for John when the blood runs out of his face, leaving him quite pale.

    “How important?” John asks.

    “Could probably destroy the british government within a week.” Lestrade says, sighing and patting John on the back to get him moving. “They probably won’t expect much from you. They’ll mostly ignore you, actually, but there might be a few who won’t stop dragging you into the conversation. Try not to be too sarcastic or you might wake up drugged and on another continent.”

    “Great.” John grumbles, and Lestrade looks amused as he leads John down halls and into an elevator.

    “How ‘bout this. We can stop and get some takeaway, a sketchbook, and some drawing and coloring supplies for you.” Lestrade offers, and John sighs heavily, is silent for a few seconds, and then he nods.

    “Alright, fine. I won’t make everything I say sarcastic, and in return I get entertainment?” John says, and Lestrade nods.

    “Basically. Here, put this on like-” John cuts the man off even though he’s actually trying to help him.

    “No, I know. Ex-army doctor, remember? We had firearms too.” John muttered, disappearing behind a curtain. He changes quickly anyway, certain that there are cameras watching him. The man easily straps the holster onto his person in a way that isn’t noticeable, and he makes sure the gun’s safety is on before he puts it in the holster. “Ready.” John sighs, walking out from behind the curtain.

    “Hold up.” Lestrade says, fixing John’s hair quickly. He doesn’t have a problem avoiding John’s confused expression or raised brow. “There.”

    “Thank… You?” John asks, furrowing his brows. Lestrade smiles a bit at the man’s obvious confusion.

    “It was either I do that, or Sherlock did it.” The silver-haired man asks, grinning as John’s expression quickly changes.

    “Okay. Thank you. Like actually thank you.” John says, tensing briefly and then relaxing. Lestrade rolls his eyes, leading the smaller man out to a car. He lets John in first, letting the man test the door before he climbs into the front seat, starting up the car and pulling out onto the roads quickly.

    “Really? Childlocked?”

 

***

 

    “Geoffrey, you’re here.” Sherlock says, rudely interrupting the man who’d been talking. His bodyguard looks annoyed, her ice eyes flashing. John raises a brow as he follows the silver haired man into the room, doing his best to ignore the heavy slam of the door behind him and the stares aimed at him almost immediately.

    “Who’s this?” The man asks, tone full of annoyance. Sherlock’s eyes spark in annoyance, and goddamn does John not like this man but he hates this brunette snob even more. John stands up straighter as he walks fully into view, his eyes hardening.

    “His bodyguard, of course.” John says, walking over to Sherlock and patting him on the shoulder as he walks past him.  _Play along._

    “S.H.? In need of a bodyguard?” The man sounds amused and John raises a brow as he sits a few seats away from Sherlock.

    “To be fair, sir, it doesn’t seem like you want to get your hands dirty or your suit covered in blood either. And, that’s quite an expensive suit, hm?” John asks, and the man’s eyes narrow a bit.

“Westwood.” Lestrade waves at Sherlock and John when the bodyguard and the man’s back are turned to him. The silver haired man leaves quickly, leaving John with a sense of growing dread as he stares with faked uninterest at the two others in the room. They stare back at him.

    The woman is blonde with piercing blue eyes, but they’re nowhere near as intimidating as Sherlock’s on a normal day, so John is able to stare back with a lazily raised brow. She’s obviously very serious about her appearance, given her eyebrows are perfectly sculpted and her makeup is nearly flawless. Her hands are small with no marks or calluses, and John assumes that she hasn’t been in a real fight before given the slight tremble that shakes her hands very slightly. Her eyes snap all over the room, narrowing every now and then as she spots a camera. John already knows that they’re all made to avoid Sherlock’s face. His body is visible, so if he was assassinated you’d be able to tell where the bullet was shot from by the jolt of his body but still not see his face.

    The man has medium brown hair that’s slicked back somewhat stylishly. His hands don’t shake, and his dark eyes are too solid for somebody not trained for this situation. John doesn’t trust him as soon as he sees the small outline of a gun against his suit. He’s too steady with all of this, and his eyes are constantly flickering around the two men opposite of him like he’s reading a book but with pieces of it ripped out. John resists the urge to start bouncing his foot, instead pulling out the sketchbook and a mechanical pencil.

    “As I was about to ask before we were interrupted.” John ignores the glance. “Do we have a deal?” John raises a brow as he starts with a few circles and lines to make a basic frame. Sherlock glances up at the man, his mostly blue eyes narrowing dangerously. The man leans forward, placing his chin on his fisted hands.

    “No.” Sherlock states simply, and John nearly snorts. The other man raises a brow, glancing at John but turning his attention back to Sherlock.

    “No?”

    “I don’t trust many clients, M, but you I can tell will either turn on me or you’re here for reasons other than a simple murder, hm?” Sherlock asks, and John glances up at the girl. She’s staring at Sherlock, and one shaky hand is slowly moving up her thigh and to her waist. Sherlock glances at her and raises a brow, and he gun is out and aimed at Sherlock within a second.

    John feels cold metal and wool. He hears two loud bangs and feels his arm moving, and then her hears a loud crash. The man comes to his senses as he has a gun aimed between ‘M’s eyes, and he’s holding Sherlock against him. His grey eyes are narrowed, and John can see in a nearby mirror that his eyes are cold and dangerous. There’s a tipped chair, the top of it broken and the part that connected it to the seat cracked down the middle. Blonde hair is splayed around a paling face, and blue eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. A puddle of dark red is starting to form around the woman, and M stares at John with wide eyes.

    “I-” John feels like the breath has been knocked out of him, and a crunching sound comes from M. The man stares at John as white foam starts to escape his mouth, and the brunette drops to the floor seconds afterward, unmoving and not breathing. “I-” John sways a bit, and a strong arm wraps around his chest. The blonde doesn’t even care that the man holding him up is a murderer, as he technically can be classified as one too now. “I-” John still can’t get out more than one word as he stares at the corpses.

    “It was in self defense, John. They would’ve shot you after me.” Sherlock murmurs, shifting so he’s standing more behind John so he can hold him up easier. “It isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Molly, take these to the morgue. You all know the protocol, get moving. Lestrade, get a car pulled around for me. I’ll be taking John with me to Bakerstreet, understood? Inform Hudson.” Sherlock orders, and John can barely hear him over a white noise. He might be going into shock.

    “Got it.” John can hear Lestrade.

    “Should I call the paramedics up?” Molly asks, sounding almost as worried as Lestrade did. The silver haired man has become attached to John, and Molly is well on her way. That much is obvious to Sherlock.

    “No, I’ve got it covered.” Sherlock mutters, picking John up easily. He walks quickly, covering distance quickly. The pair arrive in a parking garage in minutes, and a car pulls up quickly, Lestrade in the driver’s seat.

    “The usual girl is on break, you okay with me driving?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock narrows his eyes before nodding. “Good, ‘cause I wasn’t going to leave anyway. Get in, hurry up. We gotta get you two to Bakerstreet ASAP.” Lestrade snaps, and Sherlock narrows his eyes before he just climbs into the back of the luxury car.

    “Do hurry, Mrs.Hudson will be waiting for us. Usually I’d say not to sleep, but I feel that you're an exception to the rule. Go to sleep, John. Everything will be fine when you wake up.” John, for some reason, can’t evade darkness anymore after he hears Sherlock. The man gasps briefly before he passes out.


	4. Chapter 4

    “We’re out of food.” John states, ignoring the head and baggie of eyeballs in the fridge as he rummages around looking for actual food. All there is is the garlic dip for pretzels that John had made a couple days ago. Sherlock glances at him, raising a brow. John manages to keep eye contact for a solid three minutes before he turns back to the fridge. The blonde man ignores the lump in his throat in favor of looking through the cabinets. He tosses a bag of completely stale chips, and the moldy bread follows quickly. “We literally have nothing edible. I get that you don’t like eating when you’re figuring things out, but I need at least two meals a day… We don’t even have tea!”

    Sherlock sighs heavily, motioning to his coat. “Bring it here.” Sherlock orders, slipping on his shoes. John relaxes, he honestly thought he would’ve just been yelled at 0r something. The blonde man isn’t sure how he feels about learning that Sherlock is more humane than some people in everyday life, and he’s a murderous psychopath. John pulls on his coat as he hands Sherlock his, and he slips into his shoes quickly. The man freezes up when a hand grabs his coat and sweater, and John turns his head to the side to glance at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

    “Yes?” John asks, his voice a bit nervous. As far as he’s aware, he hasn’t done anything to upset Sherlock in the weeks that he’s lived in his flat, so there’s no reason that Sherlock suddenly wants to kill him for. However, the much taller man kills others for much less than nothing, so it wouldn’t really be a surprised if Sherlock decided to kill John just for the hell of it. “What is it?” John questions.

    “Your clothes. You only have three pairs, and if I’m to bring you to meetings then you should be in something at least decent. We’ll take you shopping for clothing before getting food.” Sherlock decided, and John furrows his brows.

    “What do you mean taking me to your meetings?” John questions, and Sherlock rolls his eyes with a sigh as he puts on his scarf.

    “Don’t be so dull, John. My meetings are quite boring, and, as you seem to enjoy Lestrade’s and Molly’s presences and we’re no longer taking jobs from other people, you won’t need to worry about killing anybody else anytime soon.” Sherlock states, and, instead of getting pale like John used a few weeks ago, John just rolls his eyes. Sherlock resists the urge to raise a brow at the reaction.

    “Alright, whatever. Don’t expect me to be speaking much.” John states, and Sherlock narrows his eyes with a grin, looking devious.

    “And don’t expect me not to pull you into conversations. In fact, some of these people may drag you into conversations themselves. I don’t tolerate many people, they may wonder why you’re an exception.” Sherlock says, and John narrows his eyes in annoyance. The blonde man then sighs heavily and follows Sherlock out the door. There’s already a cab waiting for the two men, and John narrows his eyes as there’s no way that Sherlock had already planned on going shopping. He was in the middle of making a case, and he usually never thinks of basic needs when doing that.

    “I have acquaintances quite high up, and that causes there to be a taxi waiting whenever I need.” Sherlock states, easily figuring out what John is confused about. The blonde man glances at the taller.

    “Which means that there are camera in the flat or microphones that you haven’t found yet.” John states.

    “Mm.” Sherlock hums instead of actually responding, climbing into the cab after John. The blonde man does his best not to let his cheeks warm as Sherlock presses against him until he closes the door and sits straight again. It takes the cab all of five minutes to reach a mall, and the man drives off just after John thanks him and is out of the car. He doesn’t once ask for payment, and John just decides not to question it.

 

***

 

    “I still think this is unnecessary.” John states about three hours after the two men entered the mall. He’s staring at the pile of clothes Sherlock is carrying, planning on grabbing some and shoving them into racks of equally expensive clothes so so much money isn’t being spent on him. Sherlock easily figures out his plan and tightens his grip, glaring dangerously at the smaller man.

    “I don’t exactly care much of your opinion on this matter, as you only wear cheap jumpers and wrecked jeans.” Sherlock states, and John narrows his eyes a bit. “Oh, do calm down. It may be offensive but it’s true. You don’t own a single piece of clothing more than fifty dollars, and nothing you owned look good enough to wear to my meetings.” Sherlock states, and John scowls.

    “This suit costs more than my damn rent!” John exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He was born into a poor family, and he was raised in such a way that he is uncomfortable with people simply buying him take out, let alone a $700 suit. Sherlock looks amused.

    “And your old flat consisted of one room and a small addition. Did you even have a closet?” Sherlock asks, eyes sparking with amusement as he sees John starting to get highly annoyed.

    “Of course I had a bloody-” John cuts himself off, reaching out to grab something as Sherlock starts to walk to the cashier. “Sherlock! Dammit, put some of that back!” John snaps, and Sherlock smirks with a raised brow, continuing to the register. The smaller man cusses and races after the taller man. “I am not worth so much money, dammit. Put that stuff back!” John catches up to Sherlock, but the man places everything on the counter and grabs John’s arm, pulling him close to him and wrapping an arm around him.

    “Sorry, he’s new to this, and he’s quite stubborn when it comes to people spending money on him. Continue.” Sherlock orders the cashier, she stares between Sherlock and John with small grin.

    “You two make a cute couple, if you don’t mind me saying.” The girl, her name tag reads Arianna, says, and John’s face turns bright red. He turns his head but realizes too late that that makes him hide within Sherlock’s chest, and the man’s blush only gets worse at Sherlock’s smirk and amused eyes. Lestrade had made the blonde think that Sherlock wouldn’t do anything inappropriate, but the man actually makes almost everything he does inappropriate when it comes to John, the fucker.

    “N-”

    “Thank you.” Sherlock says, grinning as he easily ignores John’s embarrassed grinning. The blonde doubts he can actually look Sherlock in the eye right now anyway, so it doesn’t really bother him that the taller man isn’t looking.

    “Okay.. you’re total is $2430.94.” The cashier states, and John pales considerably. Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, as he doesn’t really care about the amount of money he’s spending on John.

    “Sherlock I swear to god you better not-” John gets cut off by Sherlock’s hand as he rummages through his pocket and pulls out his wallet. John tries to shout at the man to stop, but his words are muffled and unclear.

    “Here.” Sherlock says, and John gets a bit queasy at the sight of Sherlock handing over twenty-five hundred-dollar bills. The girl at the register pauses, staring at the money as it’s placed in her hands. Her eyes widen as she marks each one, and every one of them is real. John feels like he might faint. “Keep the change.” Sherlock says, grabbing the bags easily and leading John out of the mall by a hand on the back of his neck.

    “You didn’t- I’m not worth-” John starts as the two men sit in the back of a cab. Sherlock’s mostly blue eyes snap to John, pinning the man in place and causing his words to falter and then stop completely.

    “You’re worth everything, John Watson.” Sherlock states before he turns back to the window, leaving John speechless. After a few minutes, the cab stops in front of the grocery store closest to 221B Baker Street.

    “I’ll, uh- I can get the groceries.” John murmurs, and Sherlock glances at him. “And you can head home, I know you’re still working on that one case.” Sherlock is silent for a while, but then he sighs.

    “Alright, John. You can get the groceries. If you aren’t home in…” Sherlock glances at his watch, “forty-three minutes I’m going to have Lestrade send a search party in addition to me looking for you. Understand?” Sherlock asks, handing John way more money than was needed. The blonde man nods, confused and a bit scared at the fact that running away after or before getting groceries hadn’t even crossed his mind until Sherlock suggested it as a possible outcome of this.

    “Got it.” John states, and Sherlock nods. The cab doesn’t leave until John is actually inside the store, but the blonde doesn’t really mind. John is able to get everything he needs, and a bit more, and some nicotine patches and cigarettes for Sherlock in under twenty minutes. The man gladly accepts the large bag given to him by the cashier so that he can carry everything easily. “Have a good night.” John says, and the cashier smiles.

    “You too.” The man says, and then John is out the door and walking back to his and Sherlock’s flat. The man pauses a few minutes later when a phone starts ringing. Looking around, the only phone he can see is the one in a telephone booth. The man narrows his eyes as others check their phones and put them back when they find it isn’t their phones ringing. John walks away at a faster pace, and the ringing fades slightly and then stops altogether. John starts paying better attention to his surroundings.

    About ten minutes later, as John is passing a building, the phone on the wall inside starts ringing. He can see an employee go to grab it, but their hand stops as the phone stops ringing. John’s eyes narrow again and he takes off in a brisk pace, getting stopped by a “don’t cross” symbol at an empty street. The phone in the telephone booth next to him starts ringing, and John sighs, knowing he’ll probably regret this.

    The man enters the telephone booth and picks up the phone, his hands surprisingly not shaking. “Hello?” John asks after the person doesn’t speak right away.

    “Do you see the camera on the building to your left?” A man asks, and John’s brows furrow as he tenses, indeed spotting the camera.

    “...Who is this?” John asks instead of answering the question.

    “Do you see it, Doctor Watson?” The voice asks again, and John swallows around the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat.

    “...Yes.” John eventually answers.

    “Good, watch.” The man says, and the camera turns completely around, not facing John anymore. “And the one on the top of the building to your right.” John leans a bit to see the camera, and his mouth goes a bit dry as he sees it turn around too. “And, finally, the one behind you on the brick building.” John turns his head to the side, seeing the camera turn completely to the right so that John isn’t seen in that one either.

    “What-” John is cut off.

    “I would make a threat, but your current situation should be obvious enough. Get in the car.” A sleek black car pulls up in front of the telephone booth, and an intimidating man steps out of it and holds the door open. John’s mouth goes completely dry as he puts the phone down and steps out of the booth, walking over to the car and getting in. John takes a deep breath and leans back, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. It’s a nice car, and he may as well enjoy the ride to wherever the hell he’s being taken.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter chapter but it's a bit late and I didn't sleep much last night, so... sorry about that. It's only about 500 words shorter, though. I was going to go for the regular 2000 but like I said, it's kind of late, and I wasn't able to figure out what I wanted to do with the chapter until this morning, and by then I had things I had to do... So yeah, here's what goes down between John and Mycroft.
> 
> ***

    A warehouse… Why is it always a warehouse? “A bit cliché, isn’t it?” John voices his thoughts to the woman dubbed Athena. The woman just hums an agreeing noise, causing John to scowl. The car stops, and John sighs somewhat shakily before he climbs out of the car. The door was already opened a few moments ago by the beast of a chauffeur. John quickly half-limps down the concrete hill.

    There’s a man standing in the middle of the empty warehouse. His hair is short and brown, his eyes are pale and full of intelligence, and he’s leaning on a black umbrella with a rounded, mahogany hilt. There’s an empty chair sitting in front of him, and John is sure that if there would be background music it would be absolutely filled with bass. “Doctor Watson, pleasure.” The man greets, and John narrows his dark eyes.

    “Who are you?” John questions.

    “An interested party.” The man replies, and John frowns at the other man, hating the somewhat cryptic words.

    “Interested party? Interested in what?” John asks, but he’s slowly realizing what’s going on. “Interested in  _who_?” The brown haired man looks amused.

    “Now you’re catching on. Interested in Sherlock Holmes, of course. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have grabbed  _you_.” The man says, and John narrows his eyes again.

    “What do you want?” John asks, his body tense and showing his distress being caused by the situation very obviously.

    “Have a seat, John. The leg must be hurting,  hmm?” The man says instead of answering John’s question.

    “No, I think I’m good with standing.” John says, clenching his jaw tightly. Pale eyes flash with danger, and John swallows thickly around his fear, standing his ground to the best of his ability. The man looks John up and down with a raised brow, standing up straighter and clearing his throat.

    “Very well. I want information. Nothing important, as I doubt you know about anything too big, but more about his everyday life.” John’s brows furrow in confusion. Why would- “Yes, yes, why would I want to know about what Sherlock does in his daily life. I can assure you that my intentions are not as wicked as you think.” John frowns at the man’s ability. It’s so much like Sherlock’s that the hair on the back of the blonde’s neck raises a bit. Oh God, can he do it too? “Hmm, you’re catching onto things much faster than I thought you capable of. I’m impressed, Doctor Watson.”

    “I don’t know how this helps me. Of anything, it puts my life in danger.” John says, ignoring the brown haired man’s previous statement. The man smiles, but it looks more like the baring of teeth.

    “Doctor Watson, your life is  _already_  in danger.” John tenses up, clenching a fist. He remains silent. “It said in your file that you have trust issues, yet you’re risking your life for Sherlock, trusting he’d do the same for you.”

    “I-”

    “No, no. Not trust, not yet. Maybe something nearly there. You’re very loyal,  _very_  quickly, Doctor Watson.” The man’s eyes light up like he’s watching something amusing on the telly. “May I?” The man motions to John’s hand, and John glances down at it with furrowed brows and confused grey eyes. He slowly raises it, but he recoils when the man reaches out with two hands. “Ah.” The man warns, and John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, slowly lifting his hand again.

    “What?” The man questions at the other’s entertained expression.

    “Completely steady. You should have a slight constant tremor because of your leg, but here, where you’re most in danger, your hand doesn’t even twitch.” The man says, and John glances at his hand, eyes widening a tad before narrowing as he sees that the man is right. His hand is completely steady.

    “What are you implying?” John nearly snaps, and the man grins.

    “You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.” John takes his hand back quickly, grimacing. “Don’t deny my offer right off, I’ll pay you handsomely. Think about it.” The man says before he turns and starts to walk away.

    “Who are you? To Sherlock, I mean.” John asks, and the man pauses.

    “To me, I’m simply an interested party. To Sherlock? He’s likely dubbed me his archenemy.” The man says. “My driver will take you wherever you wish to go. I’ll be contacting you in a week, Doctor Watson. Have your final answer by then.” The man leaves through a back door, leaving John standing in the middle of the empty warehouse, his heart pounding as he lets out a shaky breath.

    “Where to?” Athena asks, still attached to her blackberry phone. John glances over at her, and she pauses to glance up at him.

    “Er- 221B Baker Street.” John murmurs, and the woman nods with a small smiles before walking away. John moves to follow her, but pauses when he sees the large folder on the chair he was offered. The man narrows his eyes before he grabs the folder, setting off after Athena quickly afterwards.

 

***

 

    “I- uh, I met one of your enemies today.” John murmurs around a cup of tea, and Sherlock stops playing the violin instantly. His posture is still perfectly straight, the bow is still resting on the strings, and Sherlock is still facing the dark purple sky dotted with silver stars, but he’s stopped moving entirely.

    “Which one?” Sherlock asks, his voice a bit deeper, a bit more demanding. A bit more deadly. John shivers a bit, wishing he can avoid this conversation entirely. John stays silent a bit as he takes another sip of his tea. “ _John_.” Sherlock growls, turning slightly to the side and tipping his head down so he can glare at John with his icy, mostly blue eyes. John winces a bit. “Which  _one_?”

    “Nobody who I think was intending on hurting me. Called himself and interested party. Said you probably call him your archenemy.” John mutters around his cup of tea, staring at the space behind Sherlock’s head instead of straight at the man.

    “Ah, him.” Sherlock murmurs, going back to playing his violin. John’s brows furrow, and he slowly puts down his tea.

    “Who was he?” John asks, somewhat confused. That man is probably more powerful than the damn Prime Minister, and Sherlock is acting like he’s nobody. Sherlock doesn’t look at John as he continues playing, picking up the rhythm.

    “The most powerful man in England, and not my problem right now.” Sherlock murmurs, going down a few cords in his song. It’s silent, except for the music, for a few moments before Sherlock speaks again. “What did he want?”

    “For me to spy on you, essentially. Not even for important information, really. The things in the folder can’t actually affect you that much. He’s willing to pay me quite a lot of money.” John says lowly.

    “Mm… Did you accept?” Sherlock asks, and John glances at him with a raised brow. He doesn't sound angry, just genuinely interested in the blonde’s answer.

    “I have a week to answer. Said he’ll contact me then and I better have one by then.” John tells Sherlock, and the man hums again.

    “It’s probably in best interest that you take the deal, maybe cut off searching the house or he’ll have to add on a quarter of the current price…” Sherlock mumbles, eyes flickering around the room as he turns, but they soon settle on John. “Are the groceries put away?” The man asks, confusing John with the huge change of topic.

    “Uh…” John glances into the kitchen. “Yes. Why?” The man jumps back as his arm is grabbed, but Sherlock rolls his eyes as he drags John to the door, throwing his coat over him as the man is in the shirt he slept in instead of one of his jumpers, and Sherlock is in a heavier purple collared shirt. Sherlock can feel John’s pulse pick up, and he smirks a bit, watching John’s eyes flicker down to his lips and then away. How adorable.

    “We’re going out to eat at a newer restaurant, as you’ve probably grown tired of takeout by now but you were to afraid to say. Let’s go.” Sherlock says, tugging John out the door and into the cab waiting outside the apartment as soon as the small blonde got his shoes on. John’s face is a bit red at being caught by Sherlock, but he doesn’t bother trying to pull away. Sherlock’s grip is like steel.

    “Uh- Sherlock?” Mostly blue eyes snap to John, and the man’s face heats up a bit as it starts turning a light cherry color. John clears his throat, looking out his window. “Thank you.” John murmurs, and Sherlock grins.

    “Of course.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter but it's late again and I figured this needed a bit more moments between the two

    John  _has_  to have Stockholm Syndrome. There is  _no other way_  that the blonde has started taking note of  _how damn attractive_  Sherlock Holmes really is. There is no other reason as to why John feels funny and his stomach does flips whenever mostly blue eyes pin him in place. There is no other  _possible_  reason as to why John feels the need to bury his hands in the other man’s dark curls. Or as to why he feels the need to silence the genius sometimes by slamming his chapped lips onto the perfectly sculpted, pale pink pare.

Certainly, there is no other reason. At least, not one that John is willing to accept or even think about in the deepest parts of his mind. John sighs and rolls onto his back, eyes slammed shut and his hand tugging at his short blonde hair. Sherlock is a brilliant violin player. He’s a brilliant everything, really. It adds to his attractiveness and his character, but sometimes John needs sleep and a fast tune doesn’t help. The blonde climbs out of his bed on wobbly legs and stumbles down the stairs leading to his room.

    The man leans against the doorframe, resting his head on his arm as he stares at Sherlock with blurry vision and unfocused eyes. “John, what are you doing up?” Sherlock asks, pausing in his composing the moment he sees the ex-army doctor. His eyes narrow as he looks the man up and down. He’s surprisingly muscular for his age, something he must’ve kept from his time in the military. He’s got a few scars scattered across his torso, and maroon sweatpants hang from his hips.

    “Can’t sleep. G’tta st’p play’ng viol’n.” John murmurs, swaying with the amount of exhaustion that’s taken over him. The man has been up for three days straight, and will likely sleep through most of tomorrow. Sherlock’s found that the low-class yet highly skilled theif is the right man to turn to when he needs help planning on how to get into a building. Of course, the blonde still finds Sherlock quite intimidating. Scary, even, at times, and Sherlock isn’t somebody above using that to his ability.

    “I need to think, John.” Sherlock mutters a bit angrily, turning back to the sheet he’s using and writing a few things onto it. The tall man pauses when he hears John stumble a bit, and he’s in front of the man a few minutes later. He catches him easily in one arm, and holds his violin and bow in the other.

    “Yer hum’n too. Gotta sleep... Gotta eat…” John whispers, leaning into Sherlock subconsciously in his wiped state. Sherlock raises a brow, amusement glinting in his eyes as he stares at the ex-doctor.

    “How about this… I’ll sleep if you do so with me,  _and_  if you make me breakfast tomorrow.” Sherlock offers, and he can feel John frown into his chest through his dark blue collared shirt.

    “Cn’t cook well.” John murmurs, and Sherlock sighs.

    “Then I can take you shopping again tomorrow, and pay for our breakfast in full. Only me.” Sherlock says instead, and John frowns,  _certain_  that something about that goes against something like his morals or how he was raised or something. However, Sherlock is warm and comfortable and if he can use him as a pillow, who is he to object? John sighs before he nods, and Sherlock looks down at him with amused eyes as he places his violin and bow on the couch. He places a hand on John's shoulder.

    “Come, we’ll sleep in my bed. It’s on this floor, and it’s bigger than yours.” Sherlock says, and John hums an agreeing noise and allows Sherlock to steer him around his chair and through the kitchen. “You’re going to sit here, and I’m going to change. Then I will come back, and we will sleep. Understand?” Sherlock asks, not wanting to admit even to himself that he might cave to his need for sleep if he’s able to do so with John. He’s unsure if the other will remember this in the morning, as he seems pretty out of it because of his extreme case of exhaustion.

    “Kay.” John sighs, swaying slightly but staying sitting. Sherlock hums an approving noise before he retreats to the bathroom, pulling on a pair of navy sweatpants and a dark tank top. He pads back into the room, seeing that John is nearly asleep, but he’s still sitting up. Sherlock smiles a bit before he wipes his expression clean and walks into John’s visual range. The blonde turns his head slightly, but it’s almost barely noticeable as the man is having problems staying awake, let alone upright.

    “You can lay down and sleep now, John.” Sherlock states after he climbs into his bed and covers himself and John. The ex-army doctor sighs in content before he lays down, turning towards Sherlock. The taller man starts as arms wrap around him and cold feet press against his own, but he slowly relaxes. His arms eventually wrap around the small man, and he presses his lips against the other’s forehead before he rests his chin on John’s head and closes his eyes. The consulting criminal falls asleep within fifteen minutes.

 

***

 

    John wakes up somewhere around noon, a soft but solid presence against his back and a pillow much better than the ones on his bed pressed against his head. There’s something draped over his middle, and it loops around his torso and is pinning him against the solid thing behind him. John frowns into the pillow, wanting to fall back asleep because he’s so damn warm and comfortable. But then memories slowly trickle back into his mind, causing him to start heating up as red claws up his neck and onto his face.

    Sherlock Holmes is still very obviously asleep. He’s breathing evenly and deeply, his pulse is normal, and he’s nuzzling against the back of John’s throat. The blonde man tenses up a bit as he’s dragged closer to Sherlock. The much taller man places his forehead against John’s back, and John feels the blush creep a bit down his chest. Damn this man, and damn John’s “Stockholm Syndrome”.

    In all honestly, John can probably leave whenever he wants to and just bullshit reasons not to come home early. But he doesn’t. He always returns before Sherlock’s set times, he avoids the people Sherlock requests. He follows the man’s rules, and the man turns a deeper shade of red. Because the man he’s low-key complaining about just rumbled against his back and tightened his hold.

    John sucks in a breath as Sherlock tightens his hold more and shifts onto his back, half-dragging John with him and placing him on his chest. The man’s skin is pale and smooth, and he’s surprisingly actually muscled. His muscles aren’t defined in the way that a soldier’s are, but that may be because of how tall the consulting criminal is. He’s lean, but can very easily manipulate John and move him how he wants him. John flushes a bit deeper, but he’s physically unable to pull away from the other man.

    John closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tries to fall asleep again. Sherlock makes a sound above him in his sleep, and John ignores how fucking sexual it was to the best of his ability. One of Sherlock’s arms splays above his head, and the other is wrapped around John’s shoulders, keeping him pinned to the taller man. Sherlock sighs lightly, and stretches with his arm still around John, his lower back cracking.

    John escapes while Sherlock is shifting around, and the man runs into the bathroom to take a cold shower.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight another shorter chapter sorry the next one will probably be closer to the 2000 word goal

    John stares at the metal slab with narrowed eyes, seeing a small mark not against M’s body. The body hadn’t been touched, so it shouldn’t have moved. Unless… John leans a bit closer, not wanting to touch the body, but he reaches for the wrist anyways. John freezes up, hand hovering directly above M’s wrist. A smell other than that of a body is lazily rising from M’s body in invisible curls to assault John’s senses. It’s faint. Old. It smells like…

    “Old chocolate and rotting fruit…?” John whispers, and then he reels back. “Sherlock! Sher- Mmf!” John’s shouting gets cut off as a rag is shoved over his mouth and nose. John’s hands scratch desperately at the arma round the neck and the one holding the rag against John’s face. The blonde doesn’t dare to breath in.

    “John!” A deep voice shouts, and John can hear clattering in the other room as a tray of tools is dropped. “John!” The small man tries to plant his feet on the ground so he stops getting dragged backwards. The locked door is kicked open scarily easily by Sherlock, and John is thrown to the side as a gun gets pressed against the side of his head. The blonde man struggles to breath, one hand around his throat as he tries to force the sickly sweet smell of chloroform from his mouth and nose.

    “Sherlock!” John rasps, down on one forearm as he throws the other arm out, trying to stop the consulting criminal. Nobody besides Molly can see Sherlock’s eyes darken slightly with… Is that lust? However, everybody can hear the almost snarl that accompanies Sherlock’s words.

    “Drop it.” John hates getting drugged with a passion. He’s found that it leaves him dizzy, dehydrated, drained, and in a decent amount of danger. Sherlock keeps switching between a dark panther and a man with too much power, but John isn’t exactly sure if that’s the fault of the chloroform fumes messing with his head. “Drop your weapon or I will put a bullet in your head faster than you can beg for forgiveness from your God.” Sherlock snarls, his eyes blazing with fury and deadly intelligence.

    “M.” John warns, his gaze flicking to the ‘body’. Sherlock narrows his piercing eyes, weapon still aimed perfectly steady and precise at the agent pressing a gun against John’s temple. The man on the metal slab slowly sits up, pulling on the clothes that the gunman tosses him.

    “Sherlock.” The man greets, swinging his feet over the edge of the metal slab before he stands, swaying a bit. A hand is buried in John’s hair before it grabs the golden strands and pulls John’s head back, the gun now being pressed against the underside of his jaw. The man lets out a pained hiss, clenching his jaw and fists tightly, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. John breaths deeply through his nose, trying to convey to Sherlock that he’ll be able to take out the agent as soon as he’s balanced again.

    “Be careful, Seb, He might’ve been a doctor, and he may be woozy, but he still used to be a soldier. He probably knows how to handle that gun better than-” John feels the world stop spinning, and his eyes flash.

    “Now.” Sherlock orders, seeing that John is balanced a second before the gunman, John is almost certain his name is Sebastian. John brings up the elbow he’d been leaning on and slams it into Sebastian’s wrist. The man lets out a surprised and nervous sound and his gun fires, nearly deafening John. The small man grabs the wrist in his hair, squeezing with all of his adrenaline fueled strength as he pulls the man over his shoulder. John twists, and, with a loud  _crack_ , the grip on his hair is gone.

    John crouches above Sebastian, the man’s gun in his hand and pressed against his temple. John is breathing heavily, and oddly so is Sherlock. The consulting criminal takes deep breaths before he tuns to M and aims his gun at him. “How are you alive? You took a cyanide pill.” Sherlock says, and M grins.

    “Ask your pet. He’s figured it out.” M states, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. John yanks Sebastian’s arm back further, and the man lets out a pained cry. M winces, and Sebastian stares at him with wide eyes. “Okay, maybe not a pet. Love interest that can’t leave, then. He has figured it out, though.”

    “John?” Sherlock asks, still not looking away from M and not once aiming his gun at the ground.

    “Whatever you gave me when you took me.” John states, and M raises a brow, causing John to scowl. “You know damn right not like that.” John snaps, trying to ignore the way Sherlock’s eyes darken.

    “Mm, maybe not now but you know it’ll happen.” M smiles nearly flirtatiously, and Sherlock lets out a near growl, causing John to jump. Luckily, Sebastian isn’t able to use the few seconds John’s guard is down.

    “So the drug?” Sherlock asks, trying to distract himself in a way only M can pick up. The other man grins.

    “Of course.” M states, and Sherlock narrows his eyes, looking the man up and down to read him like a book.

    “It’s only fair I know your name, as you know mine.” Sherlock states, and John narrows his eyes in a ‘there’s no way this is going to work’ way.

    “Why in God’s name would I-”

    “Tell me what his name is or I’m going to break your arm.” John whispers to Sebastian, pulling his arm into a dangerous angle. Sebastian’s breathing becomes labored, but he remains silent. “Tell me.” John hisses, ignoring M’s and Sherlock’s conversation. The man’s patience snaps, and so does Sebastian’s arm.

    “Moriarty!” Sebastian screams, and a gun is aimed at John once again. The blonde rolls back, grabbing the wrists that he bound and yanking Sebastian to his feet. The blonde uses the larger man as a human shield. Sherlock aims his gun at Moriarty, and the brunette’s eyes blaze dangerously.

    “Answer what he wants to know, and I’ll give you your boyfriend back.” John offers, and Moriarty narrows his eyes.

    “How-”

    “It’s not difficult to pick up on.” John mutters.

    “Takes one to know one, hm?” Moriarty questions, and John shrugs, unable to look at Sherlock as his eyes have darkened yet again.

    “Apparently.” John replies eventually, and Moriarty narrows his eyes before slowly nodding at Sherlock.

    “Alright. Fix his arm and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Moriarty states, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John nods, and Sherlock sighs heavily before he nods and motions for the consulting detective to follow him into an empty lab.

    “Fix him up, John. Now.” Sherlock orders, and John shoves down shivers from the tone the consulting detective uses.

    “Yessir.” John mutters sarcastically before he shoves Sebastian along, trying to ignore the way Sherlock had tensed. “Get a move on before it’s too late to set that because of swelling.” John orders, shoving Sebastian’s shoulder and leading him into an empty medical bay to fix him up.


	8. Chapter 8

    John stares at the drawing in his sketchbook, wondering where the hell it came from and when he’d drawn it. It’s obviously his drawing, the technique and his signature is blaring out at him, but he doesn’t remember drawing it. Or the other other seven, and a few random “pictures” he’d sketched. Half of them are missing at  _least_ half of the appropriate clothes, and all of them are of Sherlock. The one the blonde man is currently staring at is one of Sherlock shirtless and playing an oddly shaped violin, smoke rising from the silver strings and London flaring purple, blue, and white in the large window Sherlock stands before. The details are down to a fucking peg, and John would be proud if the picture didn’t make his cheeks and neck burn crimson.

    “Sherlock” has on only a pair of dark pants, and a tie is loosely hung around his neck and is very tempting to grab. John is shocked that the thing looks so damn  _realistic_  because he’s only seen Sherlock shirtless a few times, and he does his best not to stare. It doesn’t usually go the way John wants, but the ex-medic  _does_  try. John clears his throat to the empty air, flipping to the next page. Another drawing of Sherlock. This one scarily realistic for such a… sexual drawing.

    The man is shirtless, a silk blanket covering his modesty. His mostly blue eyes pin John in place even though it’s only a damn  _drawing_. One end of Sherlock’s pale lips is tugged up sensually, the smirk a deadly promise. John turns bright red, throwing his sketchbook across his room. Why the  _hell_  is he drawing Sherlock like that when he’s very obviously trying to beat back his feelings (quite crappily, though). John may be even more confused about why he doesn’t remember drawing anything.

    Sure, when he starts sketching on napkins and things it’s usually Sherlock. However, John usually doesn’t get past the lips or the eyes before he quickly crumples up the drawing, doing his best to hide it from the consulting criminal. “John!” Said man jumps as the door downstairs bangs open, tossing a dirty shirt over the sketchbook right before Sherlock barges into his room.    John flushes a bit as he’s only in a pair of maroon sweatpants that are hanging somewhat loosely off of his hips. The man’s been working out quite a lot (it’s another habit picked up from being bored for too long), so his clothes are either too tight in some areas or just too loose in general.

    “Yes? Wh-What is it?” John asks, wrapping a blanket around himself. He hopes Sherlock thinks the goosebumps that appear on his skin are caused by a draft, and  _not_  because of the way the consulting detective drags his eyes down and back up John’s exposed torso. John crosses his arms, the blanket draped over his shoulders and hiding his arms like a cape. Sherlock seems to snap out of it.

    “We’re going to my office, as nobody seems to know what they’re doing. Get dressed but only if you’d like.” Sherlock says, and John finds it difficult to look the man in his mostly blue eyes.

    “Alright, be out in a few minutes. Or should I shower first?” John asks, making his words as non-sexual as he can because god  _damn_  it got hot in his room quickly. Sherlock raises a brow, looking the man up and down.

    “Could I join?”

    “Out!” John shouts, shoving the consulting detective out of his room. His face is bright red, and blood is rushing to an area that  _definitely_  should not be interested. Not right now. Especially not right now. John can hear Sherlock chuckle on the other side of the door, and he heads downstairs.

    “You have fifteen minutes John! Tick tock!” Sherlock calls up the stairs, and John rolls his eyes, huffing as if that will get rid of his body’s sudden interest and get rid of his purple and red swirling thoughts.

 

***

 

    John walks downstairs, wearing black trousers, a white button up, and a black vest. He slips on the shoes Sherlock got him carefully, still  _despising_  how expensive everything is. “Good?” John asks Sherlock, turning as he buttons his vest. Sherlock’s eyes flash with heat, and John turns slightly red as mostly blue eyes rake up and down his body. Somehow, this look is filthier than the one he was given while shirtless.

    “Delicious.” Sherlock says, walking past the man to grab his coat. A shiver rushes up John’s spine from where Sherlock brushes against him, and the man stands straighter, his breathing becoming a bit heavier. “Coming, John?” Sherlock asks, and John shakes his head and follows the taller man out.

    “Coming.” Sherlock is wearing black pants, his regular shoes, and a deep purple shirt that nearly bursts it’s buttons as it hide’s Sherlock’s chest. John knows how sturdy it is, and he immediately has to think about grammas as he remembers exactly how defined Sherlock’s muscles are. Damn his mind and the oddly sexual consulting criminal. Lestrade had lied to John’s face, but John isn’t even sure if the man was aware about how  _bad_  Sherlock can actually get.

    The taxi ride is short, and John nearly has to run after Sherlock. “Hurry John. One more step behind and I may carry you.” Sherlock warns, taking a sharp right into a room. John huffs in annoyance, picking up his pace but slowing as he enters the room.

    “Sherlock, John.” Lestrade greets, but Sherlock completely ignores him. John rolls his eyes.

    “Evening, Lestrade. Molly.” John greets the two he’s grown somewhat attached too, sighing deeply as Sherlock continues walking to the chair at the end of the table. “Pain in my ass…” John mutters, jogging along the table. Sherlock grabs a chair and puts it next to his, and John doesn’t see the surprised looks the consulting detective gets as he’s too busy rolling his eyes again. “You know, a corner won’t kill you.” John whispers as the meeting starts, and Sherlock glances at his flatmate.

    “Mm.” Sherlock just hums instead of giving his friend a verbal reply, and John sighs before he rests one arm on the table, the other burying itself in John’s hair to keep his head up. He’d been up early, unable to sleep correctly since he slept with Sherlock. Damn the man for making his nightmares stop that one night. Damn him for making John’s mind hyperactive whenever he’s within five feet (which is nearly always).

    “...Why did you bring me along, again?” John whispers after an hour and fifty minutes of just speaking about how to best plan murders and sneak drugs over borders without a problem with the police.

    “Mm, it’s boring, and you’re not.” Sherlock murmurs back, glancing at John with a raised brow, not expecting a reply.

    “Really, now?” John asks, also raising a brow as he continues staring at the slideshow thing.

    “Yes.” Sherlock replies simply, only paying slight attention to the man speaking. In all honesty, Sherlock cannot  _stand_  Anderson. “Do shut up, Anderson.” The man snaps, and the man speaking narrows his eyes.

    “Sherlock!’ Lestrade sounds annoyed, but like he’d been expecting this. Actually, nobody seems much surprised.

    “Your calculations are off, your charts are 5.792% off, and-”

    “ _Sherlock_.” John snaps, blue/grey eyes narrowing at the consulting detective. Surprisingly, Sherlock stops speaking, glancing at John with furrowed brows. “You’re being a dick. Not everybody is as smart as you.” John says, and the much taller man narrows his eyes a bit, before his lips turn up at one end. It’s a backhanded compliment, and Sherlock doesn’t think John realizes he even did what he did.

    “Mm.” Sherlock hums again, sighing heavily through his nose before he makes a ‘go on’ motion with two fingers. A few pairs of eyes widen and stare at John, but Sherlock glares at a few and clears his throat quite loudly. They turn away quickly, and John relaxes a tad as Sherlock’s face softens. The taller man leans back, placing his arm on the area where his and John’s chairs combine. His arm brushes and lays against John, but he acts like he doesn’t notice and John doesn’t move his.

 

***

 

    “Now all we need is a way to poison the victims but not our agent, as he’ll also be taking a pill.” Lestrade says, and Sherlock sighs heavily, resting his head on the arm that he’s placed on the table. The other is still touching John’s.

    “How do you put up with this nearly every day?” John mumbles, and Sherlock looks at the blonde with a raised brow.

    “You have an idea.” Sherlock says with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. John glances at the man and nods hesitantly.

    “Yeah.”

    “Everybody shut it. John has a plan.” Sherlock snaps, and the commotion in the room ceases.

    “Well, go ahead, John. We’ve got nothing so far.” Lestrade says, and John sighs heavily through his nose, glaring at Sherlock as the much taller man perfectly plays feigned innocence. John glances around the room, rubbing his temples.

    “Make the pills sugar pills. Harmless, so the agent won’t be harmed.”

    “How will that-”

    “Shut up, Anderson.” Sherlock snaps, catching on to what John’s saying. “Continue.” He orders the blonde.

    “Like I was saying,” John scowls at Anderson a bit, “sugar pills so the agent won’t be injured, but put the drug/poison/whatever in the water. Your agent can hand the victims a glass of water with their pill, just enough to swallow it, so all of it is taken.” John says, and it’s silent for a small period of time as everybody stares at the man who’d been a soldier about a year ago and a good guy about five months ago.

    “...That could actually work. Anderson, get your men working on a nonvisible poison, now!” Lestrade orders, and the brown haired man nods and stands, leaving the room quickly with a dark skinned, dark haired woman following him quickly. “Molly, help some of our guys make a lighter that looks like a gun. As realistic as possible, understand?” Lestrade asks, and Molly nods.

    “Understood, sir.”

    “Everybody, get to your stations. Stage one is a go.” Lestrade says, and everybody files out of the room quickly.

    “So… Are we going home now?” John asks, and Sherlock grins as John calls the flat ‘home’.

    “I was thinking late lunch.” Sherlock says, putting on his scarf and coat as he stands. John pulls on his coat.

    “I think I’d like that.”

    “Brilliant. French or Italian?”

    “Either works.”

    “I’ll be paying, as usual. No arguing.” Sherlock says, walking out of the building and getting into the cab waiting for the two.

    “Alright.” John mutters, sounding a bit annoyed but not too put off. Sherlock grins at the man before he turns and watches the scenery speed by on their way back to London. John eventually leans against his shoulder, and Sherlock finds that the blonde man has fallen asleep. He smiles genuinely before he turns back to the window.


	9. Chapter 9

    “Where  _are_  we?” John questions, looking around the restaurant with interest. The walls are dark maroon with black details and dark oak borders. The floors are made of the same wood, glossy and clean and looking so expensive John  _really_  doesn’t want to even step past the dark carpets in the entrance way. Sherlock sees John staring at the floor hesitantly and rolls his eyes.

    “I have yet to take you shopping. I think we’ll do that after. I’ll have a car delivered, or would you prefer a bike?” Sherlock asks, pulling out his phone and choosing a contact without looking away from John.

    “Either works.” John says, not really hearing Sherlock’s question as he pays more attention to his surroundings. Food is walked past the two that smells absolutely heavenly and looks even better, but Sherlock doesn’t seem very impressed. There’s clattering of pots and pans and orders being shouted in the kitchen, and John can faintly see forms running around through a small slit.

    “I figured I’d take you to one of the less expensive restaurants, considering even these prices will likely have you not wanting to eat. You will, though, as I’ll be ordering  _for_  you if you don’t do so for yourself. And I’ll be paying even if you don’t eat that meal, even though your interest does seem peaked.” Sherlock observes John’s eyes following a plate stacked with dark meats and bright vegetables.

    “Mm.” John hums, still looking around the room. “Italian?”

    “Yes.” Sherlock says, nodding slightly as the owner walks out to the waiting room. She’s long legs and pale eyes hidden under dark lashes. A dark red skater skirt, looking shorter than most, swishes against her legs as she strides towards the two, looking no less of a model than Sherlock does on a regular basis. She has on a charcoal collared shirt that shows her midriff and her arms, covered in swirling blacks and whites and greys only visible because the shirt is sleeveless. A maroon bow tied perfectly with thin strings hangs from the top of the shirt, and her olive eyes stand out amazingly against her black eyeliner and dark skin.

    “Sherley! It’s been too  _long_ , Love!” The woman exclaims, an accent color her voice a royal fuchsia. Her arms are thrown out widely, and her smile is of perfect teeth that are straight and white. Her skin is flawless and by the shade and her eyes it’s likely one of her parents was dark skinned and the other light. Skinny arms wrap around Sherlock and both him and John stiffen, something green and akin to jealousy rushing through John as Sherlock relaxes into the hold.

    “Toni.” Sherlock greets, even  _sounding_  relaxed. John crosses his arms and glances at the ground, subconsciously shifting his weight to the side farthest from Sherlock. The man’s ice eyes narrow as they roam over John’s suddenly protective stance and the way he shrinks into himself slightly. “How’ve you been?” A wince.

    “ _Delightful_ , honey. So much  _business_  since you took care of my ex-husband. I thank you for that. Felicia and I are here if you ever need anything.” Toni states, eyes skittering off of Sherlock and to the small man next to him. Given that Toni is nearly Sherlock’s height in her black pumps, the man is small even to the usually short woman. “And who is  _this_? I’ve never seen you actually bring somebody here. You must be very special.” Toni says, wrapping her arms around the blonde man within seconds. John jumps slightly, eyes widening.

    “No. No not really. Nothing special about me. I’m just... John.” John shrugs, looking at the woman with slightly widened eyes. Her olive pair narrows as she looks the man, and she turns her head to Sherlock to ask about why he would deal with somebody with such a slow self esteem. However, her words don’t make it past her soft, painted lips. Sherlock’s pale lips are shaped into a frown. Not a scowl, a frown. Filled with anger and a small amount of sadness. The man’s mostly blue eyes have narrowed almost dangerously, promising pain to whoever put such thoughts into John’s head.

    “Mm, incorrect.” Sherlock says, and Toni can see red creeping up John’s neck as he looks away. Sherlock’s expression turns almost predatory, but he loses the glint as he looks back at Toni. Interesting…

    “A private booth, I assume?” Toni asks, and John turns cherry. Toni’s grin is almost as bad as Sherlock’s, but she’s grinning because  _Dio mio, Sherlock is going to eat this man alive!_  Sherlock glances at Toni, smiling at her grin.

    “Of course.” Sherlock says and he grabs John by the shoulder, steering him to the seat that Toni has constantly reserved for him.

    “Good? Anything you want to drink right away. Everything is on the house, as usual.” Toni says, and Sherlock sighs heavily.

    “You  _did_  pay me for taking care of your ex, Toni. There’s no reason for you to refuse my money.” Sherlock says, and Tony rolls her eyes.

    “Posso fare quello che voglio, Sherlock. Questo è il mio ristorante. (I can do whatever I want, Sherlock. This is my restaurant.)” Toni snaps, and John raises a brow, glancing at Sherlock for his reaction.

    “Naturalmente è il tuo ristorante, ma è il mio denaro e avere a che fare con esso.” Sherlock snaps back in fluent italian, and Toni raises a brow at the sass. There’s a few minutes of silence, but then Toni sighs.

    “Alright, you win.” The woman exclaims, throwing her hands in the air with an air of grace. John’s brows furrow, wondering how the  _hell_  these people do it, because in all honestly just Sherlock being so damn graceful and elegant (most of the time) is fucking  _intimidating_. He’ll ask later. “What’da you want to drink, sweetheart?” Toni asks, pulling out a small pad of pink paper with black detailing as she turns to John.

    “Just-”

    “He wants coke, but trying to settle for water. Would you bring both out, as I only want water?” Sherlock interrupts John, getting a slightly flushed annoyed look from John. He ignores the look.

    “Any appetizers?” Toni asks, writing the drinks down.

    “Mm, do you still have the onion rings and mozzarella sticks?” Sherlock asks, and Toni rolls her eyes.

    “Of course we do, that’s the most commonly bought appetizer pair.” Toni snaps, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

    “Yes, of course. Whatever. We’d like those.”

    “Please.” John adds on, throwing Sherlock a dirty look that the much taller man easily ignores.

    “Oh. Sure, hun.” Toni says, slightly surprised by John’s manors. “Don’t know how you got straddled with this guy, you seem awful nice.”

    “Wasn't by choice.” John grumbles, and Toni raises a brow.

    “He’s here willingly now. I may have kidnaped him a few months ago.” Sherlock says casually, like that’s an everyday occurrence.

    “Makes sense. Have fun on your date, you two. A waitress will be along with your drinks and appetizers. Try to have your main meals chosen by then.” Toni says, and John smiles at her and waves her a goodbye. Sherlock just nods in her direction, but that’s fine with Toni. He’s never been much of a verbal person. It’s his movements and motions that you need to watch to see how he actually feels about somebody.

    For example, most people don’t get even a glance in their direction. That he nodded to Toni and actually conversed with her means that he actually likes her as a friend. However, what’s going on with John is something that Toni hasn’t seen in the seven years she’s been Sherlock’s friend. The man has put down his phone and is leaning forward, looking at John even though the man is simply rambling aimlessly as he sketches on a nearby napkin. Toni is nearly certain that the blonde doesn’t even know that Sherlock is actually paying attention to anything that he’s saying.

    And it’s something deeper than mere interest between Sherlock and John. The dark haired man seems to actively be paying attention the much smaller man’s words, his eyes flickering occasionally over John’s body or to catalogue his expressions while he talks about certain matters. When John frowns or scowls, a corner of Sherlock’s mouth turns down. Toni is certain that she even hears Sherlock  _laughing_. The man’s mouth moves, his pale lips parting as he listens to John’s responses.

    Sometimes the blonde turns slightly red and looks away, either unaware to his actual feelings or incorrectly guessing that Sherlock feels nothing for him. Toni smiles to herself as Sherlock smiles. Actually smiles, not the grin that he usually has or the smirk that sometimes appears on his angular face. Mostly pale eyes flicker down to look at John’s tongue as it runs across his bottom lip, his lips chapped after talking for so long. Sherlock starts listening slightly less intently then, his eyes roaming John’s body more often. John turns red more often now.

    John says something, and Sherlock frowns slightly. The expression only gets worse as John continues rambling about something, unaware of how it’s affecting Sherlock. The man pauses, noticing how intently Sherlock is staring at his lips and the way that they move. He nervously licks his somewhat chapped lips, and Toni can see whatever dam Sherlock had built break.

    The man surges across the table, one hand burying itself in John’s hair as he crashes his pale lips against the ex-medic’s. John’s eyes widen in surprise before they slam shut, and Sherlock licks at the man’s bottom lip, asking for enterance. After a few moments, John allows it, but Toni looks away when Sherlock finally pulls away, panting heavily. “I-” Sherlock cuts himself off, brows furrowing. “I need to-” Sherlock stands and leaves, and John scrambles from his seat, throwing a few bills onto the table before he runs after his much larger companion.

    “Sherlock!” John shouts, throwing the door to the restaurant open almost forcefully. John spins in a circle once outside, and Toni moves to go outside and call John a cab, but a dark car with tinted windows pulls up next to the slightly teary, red man. John turns to the car as the window cracks open, sighing shakily before he nods, pulling a hand through his hair before he climbs into the car.

    Toni is worried that one of Sherlock’s enemies has come to kidnap John, but then she sees the umbrella in the backseat of the car and she relaxes. She knows that Mycroft is a very dangerous, very powerful man, but she also knows that he would never hurt Sherlock as badly as taking John away. “Happy hour starts now!” She shouts before she heads to the bar to get herself a drink. Today has suddenly become a long day.


	10. Chapter 10

    John is obviously only half in the car, the rest of his mind racing many times faster than usual and somewhere Mycroft can’t get to. It’s odd, as it’s only been a week but he can see that John is different, even as it’s only been a week since he’s last seen him. There’s a  _large_  difference from when John had first been snagged, as Mycroft had kept a close eye on the escapee, but the difference from just a week is still very noticeable to Mycroft. The older man is actually somewhat impressed. Most other humans are so  _dull_  and unwilling to pick up on new abilities even subconsciously.

    For example, what John’s doing now. Mycroft doesn’t think that the blonde man even knows what he’s doing. He thinks he’s simply thinking, but Mycroft can recognize the placement of a fist under the man’s jaw and the furrowed brows. However slowly, John is beginning to build a mind palace, but he’s mistaking it as simply in-depth thinking. Mycroft hums slightly in interest, pale eyes narrowing as he sees that the noise has no reaction on John. Quiet noises, at least.

    The car parks, and Mycroft places a hand on John’s shoulder. The blonde jolts obviously, and Mycroft stores away the information. John is breathing a bit heavier, the action of using a mind palace completely foreign to him so it affects his body. “Come, you didn’t enjoy the food at the other restaurant, and you need familiar food.” Mycroft says almost softly, and John takes a shuddery breath. He nods and follows Mycroft out of the sleek black car, and he feels like he’s still in danger even with the beast of a body guard away.

    “Snipers.” John mumbles, glancing at a shifting shadow on the roof of the building across the street.

    “Mm?” Mycroft hums, raising a brow and glancing at John. He sees the shadow and nods. “Ah, yes. Some of the best. They’re the one who catches your attention, there are many others.” Mycroft says, and John clenches his jaw and keeps his attention on the man walking in front of him. John holds the door open for the taller man, his manors still with him even with about seven guns trained on him.

    “Naturally.” John murmurs, and a corner of Mycroft’s mouth turns up in a small smirk. The man moves to the table waiting for the two of them, and John follows him almost silently, still not entirely with Mycroft. The man hands John a menu, and can see his dark eyes scanning the room. The older man is surprised as they pause on a few of his agents, but they do roll over the rest of them without realizing they aren’t who they’re pretending to be. Mycroft waits for the food to arrive before he starts.

    “You’ve thought about my offer.” Mycroft says, and John glances up at him, slowing down on his chewing. He swallows before he speaks.

    “Of course.” John says, causing Mycroft to raise a brow.

    “And?”

    “You should know that he’d shoot me if I went into his room without his strict permission, and even then I’m not allowed to touch anything he doesn’t send me to get.” John says, and Mycroft nods, already having expected this.

    “Of course. Important documents might be in there, and if you were to be captured then you’d know that information. You may be strong, John, but not enough to last against a year of torture.” John raises a brow at the somewhat backhanded compliment.

    “Thank… You?”

    “I don’t care about that though. Like I said during our previous meeting, I want basic information on Sherlock. His everyday life, what he eats,  _if_  he eats, when and if he sleeps. You get the jist.” Mycroft says, and John narrows his eyes, leaning forwards a bit as he presses his fists against the underside of jaw.

    “What’s your name? You aren’t in this for malicious reasons.” John states, and Mycroft raises a brow, weighing the pros and cons of handing over his name to a near stranger. He decides it won’t harm him much.

    “Mycroft.” The taller man says, pale eyes narrowing as John’s harden briefly as he leaves into his mind and then comes back.

    “Who would name their kid Mycroft?” John whispers, not entirely meaning for Mycroft to hear him. The man doesn’t really care, but he leans forward in interest, wondering if John will be able to figure it out. “Weird name, deducing ability, more logical… Older than Sherlock?” John glances up at the man, wincing slightly as he sees his drawn the taller man’s attention. Mycroft raises a brow.

    “Who  _would_  name their child Mycroft, Mr.Watson?” Mycroft asks, prodding at John verbally. The blonde is quiet for a few moments.

    “The same people who would name their kid Sherlock.” John eventually says, and he can see that Mycroft is slightly impressed.

    “Very good, John. I can understand why Sherlock took an interest in you.” Mycroft says, and John rolls his eyes.

    “How much are you planning on paying me for this?” John asks, and Mycroft’s face hardens into an expression that doesn’t quite add up correctly with the fact that he’s eating chocolate cake.

    “Will this work?” Mycroft, sliding a piece of paper across the table. John narrows his eyes, hesitantly picking the paper up. He nearly chokes on his food, having to drink some water quickly after reading the amount on the check. Mycroft looks amused. “Are you alright, Doctor Watson?”

    “And you’re planning on paying me this every meeting?” John asks, one hand on his chest as he lets out a rattling cough.

    “Of course.” Mycroft says, nodding. John hesitates slightly before he nods a bit slowly, eyes struggling to stay focused on Mycroft’s pair.

    “Is there paperwork I need to sign, or-”

    “Mm, not unless you plan on stopping the meetings anytime soon. Do we have a deal, Mr.Watson?” Mycroft asks, holding out his hand.

    “Y-Yes. Of course.” John says, and he shakes the hand offered. Mycroft nods, and then he tilts his head to the car that pulls up outside the house.

    “That should take you to 221B.” Mycroft says, and John glances at the car, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself.

    “Will he even let me into the apartment?” John asks, his face hardening as he tries to hide his emotions. Mycroft can still see the pang of guilt and a large amount of pain in the blonde man’s eyes.

    “I am… Unsure. The chances aren’t very good.” Mycroft admits, and John sighs, pulling a hand through his platinum locks. Mycroft watches the man, his eyes narrowed as he realizes how  _stupid_  the decision he’s about to make is. Damn familial affected emotions. “You can, of course, stay with me until Sherlock decides to deal with his feelings like an adult.” Mycroft says hesitantly, and he has trouble looking at John when the man’s head whips back to him and his eyes snap to his, looking for dishonesty.

    “Why?” John asks, sounding genuinely confused and shocked.

    “Sherlock may not like me. He may not even tolerate me, but he  _enjoys_  being near you. He nearly  _craves_  it, and an addiction to you is much safer than his previous ones. I  _do_  care about Sherlock, no matter how much he refuses to accept that. Sherlock has many actual enemies, and as you’ve been to a few meetings with them I have no doubt one of them would’ve captured you if I didn’t see you. I also have no doubt one of them will grab you as soon as you step more than five feet from me in a public place.” Mycroft explains, and John pales slightly, his hand slowly stopping its’ tremoring.

    “I… Understand.” John says, and his voice is much softer now, fear coloring it a pastel cyan.

    “We’ll stop at a few places on the way to get you things for your room. Sherlock is one to have extreme mood swings sporadically. We may as well fit you a room. Maybe a car of your own.” Mycroft says as he stands, raising a brow at the smaller man’s choking. He pats John’s back once with a large amount of force, and the blonde is able to breathe regularly a few moments later.

    “That’s really- You don’t need to-”

    “I feel I do. If anybody is able to save my brother from himself, it’s you.” Mycroft says, and John’s brows furrow in obvious confusion. He follows the man outside, one hand in his pocket in a way that tells Mycroft he has a gun. But the man also knows that John isn’t planning on using it on him. Mycroft lets John climb into the car first, and he nods at the sniper he sees before he climbs in after the blonde.

 

***

 

    It’s a month before Sherlock nearly busts down Mycroft’s (very expensive) front door. John isn’t in the room, thank god as the man probably would pull a gun on the man and turn him nearly rabid. Mycroft’s in the front room reading a new book when he gets the message that his brother has pulled a gun on his security guard at the gate. He grudgingly lets the man in, honestly a bit angry with the younger man. He’s tried his best, but apparently if Sherlock is able to develop  _romantic_  feelings for somebody it isn’t difficult for Mycroft to become protective of that man in a friendly way.

    The door slams open, and Mycroft glances up and raises a brow as his brother storms into his house. “Where is he?” Sherlock hisses, his voice nearly deadly. It’s clear he’s already taken on a feral edge, something Mycroft knows happens when he’s having withdrawals or when his drugs/alcohol/addiction is threatened to be taken away from him. Mycroft’s brows furrow in anger. How dare Sherlock force his way into his house and demand to see the man that he’s caused so much pain. Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

    “John is-”

    “What the bloody hell is-” John cuts himself off as his breath leaves him and he pales slightly. “Sherlock.” The taller man closes the distance between them quickly, and his mouth crashes onto the smaller man’s.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like at this point I should start writing about the other tagged ship...
> 
> ***

    John almost caves. His breath leaves him before he lets out a startled gasp, and Mycroft can see him slowly relax as Sherlock’s grip on him tightens. But then he tenses, his eyes fly open, and he shoves Sherlock away. “Nonono. You can’t. You can’t just  _do this_  to me!” John shouts, backing up slightly from Sherlock.

    “John-”

    “And you can’t just get my hopes up and then- then  _crush_ them! I can’t  _handle_ \- My- You-” John nearly breaks down, and Mycroft is on his feet before he realizes what he’s doing. He pauses a few steps from Sherlock when the man whirls around to face him. The dark haired man bares his teeth, and Mycroft raises a brow. The last time he saw a look that dangerous from Sherlock, he’d been taking away the case of drugs he’d found in Sherlock’s room while he lived with the older Holmes.

    “John.” Sherlock sounds pained as he sees John step back as he takes a step forwards. “Please. Please, I’m sorry. I haven’t- I haven’t felt this before. I don’t know how to deal with emotions.  _I’m sorry_.” Sherlock’s voice cracks, and John’s foot moves forwards, but then he hesitates. “ _John, please_.”

    “John!” Mycroft exclaims as the man pitches forwards, moving quickly. Sherlock, of course, is closer. Not to mention much faster. With his addiction to the blonde and his physical abilities, Mycroft is nearly certain that he and Sherlock’s positions could be switched and he’d still not be the first one to make it to John.

    “I’ve got him.” Sherlock tells his brother after he’s already holding John close to his body. Mycroft calms down slightly, his anger slowly receding as he sees actual pain in Sherlock’s eyes.

    “He cares for you, Sherlock. Don’t hurt him, or I swear I’ll make you a target. Don’t break him.” Mycroft threatens, and Sherlock’s brows furrow as he stares at his brother with slight confusion.

    “When have you ever been… Protective of somebody?” Sherlock asks, not offended. Just genuinely curious. Mycroft sighs and rubs at the back of his neck after pulling a hand through his thinning hair.

    “John Watson is… Different. Not interesting yet, but definitely not dull. What drew you to him affected me as well, but not in the same way. I care about John platonically, maybe going as far as to say I think of him as a friend. The bond formed quickly and attached itself to me strongly from the beginning. Do not break him, or I’ll do the same to you.” Mycroft threatens before he motions to the door.

    “Mm.” Sherlock hums, looking at his brother with the interest of a scientist. He eventually nods his silent thanks before he turns and heads out of the open front door. Mycroft lets out the air he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The man looks around the room before nodding to himself. Maybe Sherlock was right the last time he and the older holmes conversed. Mycroft should find himself a goldfish.

 

***

 

    Greg Lestrade doesn’t find himself interesting. In fact, he’d go as far as to say he’s below average in nearly everything. Not because he is or because people tell him so, but because of lasting effects from his childhood. His self esteem has never been very good, so he’s never realized how important he is. He’s never realized that being able to talk back to Sherlock is as close as friendship as you’ll be able to ever get with the man. He has no idea how much that adds on to his true worth.

    The man is attractive, but he doesn’t really accept the compliments he’s given. He’s learned to just nod his head or smile or something along the lines, but he never really takes the compliment. Better to dismiss it than to make an embarrassing scene wherever he is when he gets the compliment. The point is, he’s never thought of himself as worth anything. He thinks of himself as unimportant, so of course he’d never truly prepare himself to be fucking  _kidnapped_  in  _broad light_.

    Lestrade works for Sherlock. Well,  _worked_  for Sherlock. The man himself had began to fear for his safety and is forcing him into a  _long_  paid vacation which he’s sure he’ll never return from. The point is that he’s helped capture a few people himself, so he catches on only about five minutes after he starts being followed. It’s tricky, but the man has been paranoid for the last few days a flat near his was busted into. The man rubs his tired eyes and stares at his coffee with slight disinterest. He downs it quickly though, afraid that if he doesn’t do something he’s going to bolt. He knows staying calm is likely the safest thing to do in a situation where he’s being followed, but he’s finding it quite difficult to do so.

    His left hand is trembling in a way that only happens when something  _big_  is going to happen to him. Usually for the worst. Lestrade looks around as he stretches, pretending to read the diner’s posters instead of looking out the windows and glancing at the sleek black car that’s been following him nearly unnoticeable. The car turns at the corner, and Lestrade takes a deep breath, smiling kindly at the waitress as he acts like he hasn’t noticed anything. The silver haired man leaves the diner, thankful that his strides are long and powerful. It makes it look like he’s walking his normal pace down a street and not preparing to bolt down the nearest alley when the car turns the corner again.

    Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek, shoving his hands into the pockets of his obviously cheap jacket. He slips into the nearest alleyway a few milliseconds before the car turns the corner, and he quickly starts sprinting, his hands out of his pockets and a gun held professionally in his hands. The man turns a corner and stops abruptly, swearing wildly under his breath as he ducks behind a dumpster. Two men in expensive suits turn a corner, their footsteps barely reaching Lestrade as they did before they rounded the corner. The silver haired man holds his breath as they pass, paling at the sight of a syringe filled with clear liquid in one’s hand.

    He bolts from behind the garbage bin as a homeless woman points in his direction when cash is handed to her. The two men are after him instantly, catching up with each passing second. Lestrade cusses loudly this time, rushing out into traffic. He slides over the hood of a passing car, sliding under a truck that’s a few feet off the ground because of those stupid wheels that are definitely too big for the car. For once, Lestrade is grateful for such an idiotic and ugly design.

    “There.” The silver haired man can hear one of the men shout as his life flashes before his eyes. He rolls over another hood and leaps past a speeding bike, sprinting down the opposite road. The man is almost impressed with himself, but his mind goes almost blank as he passes a bar and he’s grabbed by the arm violently. A bruise is  _definitely_  going to be left where the hand is grabbing him. Lestrade’s breath catches in his throat as he tries to twist out of the turn, but he only ends up with a forearm against his throat and his arms trapped behind him, somehow already cuffed.

    “What-” Lestrade tries to wheeze out a question, but a needle sinks into an area close to where his shoulder meets his neck. The man lets out a gasp of pain, his dark eyes widening before becoming lidded as fatigue washes through him like a goddamn tidal wave. The man sways, but the stronger one keeps him upright scarily easily.

    “Apologies, Mr.Lestrade. Just doing my job.” The man says, easily dragging him to a sleek black car. Lestrade is barely with his body, but he’s just barely aware enough to see that all the cameras on the nearby buildings are either off or facing away from him. Blackness quickly assaults the man afterward, and Lestrade isn’t able to fight off unconsciousness long enough to even make it entirely into the car.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me? AKA I'm actually back now hello

    Lestrade isn’t sure what he expected upon waking up, but laying on a fucking heavenly bed with water and aspirin on the bedside table definitely hadn’t made the list. The man sits up slowly, staring at the aspirin. It could be laced with deadly drugs. Or just drugs meant for something other than pain relief. Something vicious slams against Lestrade’s head, and he groans. He takes the aspirin quickly, because he’d honestly rather be dead or high than feeling like he’s hungover.

    Lestrade waits nearly an hour for the stupid medicine to kick in, and even then he does  _not_  want to leave the room he’s been placed in. He looks around, pausing to look at hidden cameras. The room itself is goddam beautiful. Dark red walls, dark oak borders and swirling designs against the red. The bed Lestrade is on is huge, the fluffy comforter and heavenly pillows black while the silk sheets are maroon. The silver haired man gets out of the bed quickly, feeling quite vulnerable.

    Lestrade grimaces as he feels something tug at his ankle, looking down at the heavy cuff and chain with distaste and slight fear. The small swallows thickly, looking around the room to find something laying around to pick the lock. Not even a penny. Lestrade takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself as he sits down and pulls out one of the bobby pins he hides in his hair to escape situations like these. It takes him nearly half an hour to pick the damn thing, and he slowly gets to his feet, letting out a shaky breath.

    Lestrade makes his way to the closet, looking at the clothes closely to see if he can fit into them. The man gives up after a while, and freezes as he enters the bedroom again. There are clothes sitting on the end of the bed that hadn’t been there moments ago. Lestrade clenches his jaw tightly, grabbing the clothes and changing quickly. At least they’d been so kind as to leave him in sweatpants, but it’s creepy as hell to the man that they changed him out of his clothes in the first place.

    Lestrade glances into the mirror, running a hand through his hair as he looks around for a weapon. Of course, there’s nothing. Lestrade frowns, biting the inside of his cheek. He rolls up the sleeves of the black collared shirt as he leaves the room, wondering how the hell everything fits nearly perfectly. It’s creepy as hell. The man’s hand tremors slightly, so he clenches it into a fist and hopes it’s mistaken as anger instead of the fear rushing through him in waves.

    “Nice of you to finally join us.” A man greets Lestrade, his pale eyes boring into Lestrade’s dark pair. The man would recoil, but he’s pinned in place by the damn stare, so he just freezes in place, standing in a position that allows him to defend himself or bolt at the first opportunity.

    “Why am I here? Where  _is_  here?” Lestrade asks, and he tenses as he hears a nearby door open.

    “If you run, I’ll catch you.” The man states, and Lestrade clenches his jaw, swallowing thickly. “Sit.” Lestrade walks stiffly to the chair further from the man, crossing his arms and just letting his foot shake wildly. So what if the man knows he’s nervous? It doesn’t take a jumping foot to tell.

    “Why am I here?” Lestrade asks, barely managing to keep his words calm and his voice steady.

    “I decided it was time to spice up my life and get a pet.” The man says, and Lestrade narrows his eyes. The tone the man is using is meant for a joke, but there’s a hint of seriousness in the words. Lestrade falls back onto the one thing that’s gotten him out of a few hostage situations. Humor.

    “I quite enjoy black, if you’re wondering what colored collar you want to get.” The silver haired man jokes. The corner of the other’s pale lips turns up. At least he got a reaction. If he can just stall long enough to-

    “Really? I was thinking hot pink.” The man replies, and Lestrade falters with his words before he pretends to crack a smile.

    “Even better.” Lestrade tries, but he knows that his voice is weak. He subconsciously leans further into the chair.

 

***

 

    “Get up, I need your help.” John cracks open one dark eye, scowling slightly. He makes an annoyed sound, rolling over and shoving a pillow over his head. He then realizes that this bed has way too many pillows to be his, as he’s basically surrounded by them. He frowns into the pillow, inhaling as quietly as he can. The scent of cigarettes, bourbon, and something else that makes the scent vaguely Sherlock assaults John’s senses. So, he isn’t in his own bed. He’s in Sherlock’s.

    “I’m not argueing with you about this. If you’re not out of bed and dressed by the time I return with food, I’m dressing you myself.” Sherlock threatens, and then he leaves the room. And then the flat. John is somewhat tempted to continue sleeping, but he also doesn’t trust his reaction to Sherlock undressing him from his pajamas and then putting him into actual clothes. John sits up slowly, running a hand through his hair as he stumbles into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and taming his hair half-heartedly.

    He wanders back into Sherlock’s room, somewhat glaring at the clothes waiting for him at the foot of the bed. He pulls on the clothes quickly, tugging at the blazer in annoyance as he scowls at the red tie he puts on. “Stupid damn tux.” John mutters, his face scrunching up as he glances in the mirror. “I look-”

    “Quite dashing.” John jumps, turning around quickly. Sherlock looks amused, a small smirk tugging a corner of his lips up. John narrows his eyes, slowly letting go of the cup he’d grabbed and planned on throwing at an intruder. John eventually rolls his eyes, turning around again as he pulls his hair into place, eyebrows furrowed in anger.

    “Mm.” John says, not wanting to disagree outright. Sherlock’s eyes narrow in the mirror, and John’s grey pair flickers as he makes eye contact with Sherlock in the mirror. He looks back at himself, clenching his jaw. He forces the red back down his neck, loosening his tie before tightening it again.

    “You’d think you’d know how to tie a tie by now.” Sherlock says, and John glares at the man using the mirror.

    “Git.” John snaps instead of defending himself. Sherlock rolls his eyes, approaching John and turning him around.

    “You need to learn how to do this yourself at some point.” Sherlock murmurs, undoing John’s failure of an attempt. His deft fingers move quickly, and John’s face flushes as he looks at anything except for Sherlock. The man tightens John’s tie before grabbing the silver pin that holds the back of the tie in place. Sherlock doesn’t move, his hand still gripping John’s tie tightly. John clenches his jaw, eyes slowly settling on Sherlock’s chest. And then his chin. And then his lips. And then his eyes. Sherlock tugs John forwards roughly, his pale lips slamming against the blonde’s.


End file.
